


Lost in the Constellations

by AU Mer-Maid (neonstardust)



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Alternate Universe - Mythology, Death, Depression, Minor Character Death, Near Death Experiences, Slaughter of the minor characters, graphic depictions of death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-28
Updated: 2018-04-28
Packaged: 2019-04-28 20:56:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 9,400
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14457582
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/neonstardust/pseuds/AU%20Mer-Maid
Summary: Nothing changes.The world keeps spinning. Seasons pass. Rain falls. The same flowers spring up year after year.But perhaps, there is change in that, too.





	1. Fall of the Rat

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: Em, I am on my hands and knees begging you, for the love of all that you hold dear, please, do not read this.

Stone steps stretch endlessly into a world of midnight. Ivy curls over the handrails in delicate waves. One step, and then another, Yahaba keeps his head held high, hands clasped behind his back. Overhead, the sky fades. As the sun and moon fall away, stars guide him along the steps like fireflies, almost close enough to touch.

The steps give rise to a temple of sapphire and gold, like the ocean crashing against an eternal sunset. Beyond it, the northern and southern lights clash in a luminous battle. Their colors streak across the sky in an effortless dance older than time itself.

“Yahaba-san.” Moniwa spots him first. In an instant, he leaves the others, arms stretched wide, to envelop Yahaba in a hug that is stiff and forced. “It's great to see you again.”

“Same to you.” Yahaba’s smile wavers.

He stands smaller, quieter. Once muscular skin clings to pronounced bones. Yet a blush colors his cheeks perpetually rosy, and Moniwa beams with a smile cast from starlight.

He hasn’t changed.

No one ever does.

Thin fingers gripping Yahaba’s wrist, Moniwa drags him almost desperately toward the others. Behind him, the ends of his obi curl like a corkscrew tail, the copper fabric blending down through his emerald hakama.

Semi leans against the railing in silent vigil. To his left, Sugawara waves. Youth radiates from his smile, but he watches them through intelligent eyes. Hiding close by his side, Kageyama offers a quiet greeting, no different from the years before, as if following a script written long ago. Without turning, Yahaba notices Atsumu before he's even off the steps, too accustomed to the brilliance of his scales.

“It's time to start.”

“Ah”—Moniwa wiggles free from Oikawa’s gentle hug—“already?”

Oikawa runs his hand through Moniwa's hair. Jeweled rings glitter dazzlingly in the low light shining across his fingers. “No one will mind if we're late.”

“This year is important,” Sugawara says.

“All years are important.” Oikawa smiles patiently, slitted eyes gleaming with mischief. “But let's not keep Kenma-chan waiting, hmm?

As he speaks, the temple doors slide open. Warm light flows from within. Letting the golden rays wash over his skin, Yahaba follows the others inside, finding his way to his place in the circle without trying, without thought.

At the circle's center, Kenma faces south, head bowed. His fingers twist in his lap, tugging at the loose fabric of the pillow he sits on. Behind him, Futamata looks to the north. Messy hair nearly covers two little horns, but they catch the light every time he casts an anxious glance around the room.  

“Today begins the end.” Kenma's words are delicate whispers. A universe of stardust throbs softly along his skin. “Tomorrow, the ox ascends to the sky to learn and share in what the world offers.”

Semi rises from his pillow, back straight yet confident. Eons of patience course through each step he takes as he kneels before Futamata.

“You’re industrious.” Semi's voice sounds husky, almost like a growl. He rests a hand tipped off with curling claws gently on Futamata's shoulder. “May you be brave in your creativity and fearless when you accept things just as they are.”

It's easy to overlook the rabbit, Yahaba thinks. Overshadowed by the milky glow that halos Atsumu's skin, Shirabu seems invisible. Long ears drape down over his shoulders, twitching at the ends when Semi finishes his speech. At his turn, he stands with a refined elegance, taking small, dignified steps, as if the ceremony is beneath his time. Idly, Yahaba wonders how Semi can manage being balanced by someone with only false courage.

Listening to the dragon's speech, eyes narrowed as if half asleep, Oikawa doesn't conceal his amusement. His haori flows in black waves down his shoulders like ink, and yet it glitters as if a rainbow of colors was woven deep into each thread. Catching Yahaba’s gaze, he offers only a wink and a knowing smirk.

As Kageyama strides forward, obi fluffed out behind him like a long tail, Sugawara flashes an encouraging smile. Hair the color of smoke and ash curls around his horns; watching Sugawara brush a lock of it behind his ear, Yahaba doesn’t understand how anyone could think he looks more like a goat than a sheep.

To his right, walking with hurried steps, Koganegawa nearly trips during his approach to the room’s center. Every speech is different from the year before, Yahaba knows, yet even the monkey's words all blend into the same indecipherable script in his ears. Not even Koganegawa can truly change.

Clips of gold push Akaashi's hair back. Around his neck, a diamond pattern stands out boldly against his kimono. As he walks, his haori drags along the ground, like feathers of gold and brown, framed with graceful white.

Too soon, Yahaba stands, his legs stiff and uncooperative, but new energy flows into his body with each step he takes. The air stirs with boundless hope and unsaid wishes. Before him, blessings radiate along Futamata's skin.

Yahaba’s mind buzzes, hyperaware of every sound, every color, every pair of eyes burning against his back, but he moves without thought. Muscle memory guides him to sit, moves his hand to rest on Futamata's head, fingers brushing against ebony horns. “May you be loyal to your ideas and faithful in doing what is right, even when the choices are hard.” The words taste like cotton. Even as they leave his lips, they slip past his ears, lost with all the other sentiments murmured over the centuries. “It’s not easy to be reliable, but always be sincere.”

Has he said this before?

“Follow your heart and be always understanding.” Staring at a gilded coffin, Yahaba wonders when hopes became lies.

His hand feels heavy, but Futamata beams, a promise to try his hardest. Yahaba smiles gently. Ignoring the empty feeling clawing at his chest, he passes Moniwa on his way back to his pillow.

It's almost over. Yahaba buries his hands in his sleeves. His heart beats steadily, like the ticking of the clock above them. In the place where time ceases to exist, midnight will soon be upon them.

Kenma doesn't rush when he stands. Under their scrutiny, his ears twitch. A blue ribbon ties his hair back, and, with nowhere to hide, he drops his gaze to the floor. “This year...” He scrunches his nose. “Times are difficult. Death. Hatred. Betrayal.” His pale hands shake where they rest on Futamata's shoulders. “May you be patient and wise. Plan before you act. Think beyond yourself.” Kenma's lip trembles, and he bites down hard.

Yahaba tries not to squirm. He still feels the stars in his lungs and the planets beneath his feet. Hidden by his sleeves, his nails bite into his skin, searching for something solid to hold onto, but only finding blood and pain.

“... be yourself,” Kenma whispers. “It's a new year.” Only a breath louder, he adds, “A new cycle.”

“Hmm?” Oikawa tilts his head. To his right, Shirabu stiffens.

Kenma doesn't look up. “May you all find strength in being open minded.”

The clock strikes twelve.

Blinding light engulfs Futamata. It pulls him up, higher and higher, until his feet hover above the floor. Stars rise from Kenma's skin; they circle around them, moving with incredible speed, wrapping Futamata in a sea of boundless constellations. As he rises higher, eyes shining like novas, his figure blurs and fades.

In a silent flash of dust and endless galaxies, Futamata is gone, stolen to another world without an exit.

Standing alone in the circle’s center, Kenma bows his head in a silent prayer.

A prayer for something better.


	2. Rise of the Ox

It's been three years.

Yahaba runs the brush through his hair. Cosmos no longer glitter along the bristles. The teeth he flosses shine pearly white, but their ethereal glow fades to the light sheen of dollar brand toothpaste. His life in the heavens withers into a distant dream.

It's been three years.

Flopping onto his bed, Yahaba can't remember why he even got up to begin with. His mind feels dusty, scattered with cobwebs. Wispy thoughts form and vanish before he can grasp them.

Picture frames overflow off his nightstand. Kiyoko, with her raven locks and porcelain skin, offers a shy wave. Watari flashes a peace sign, one eye winking for good luck. Shirofuku desperately holds out one hand, as if she could push the camera away, still smiling even as she yells, “Not while I'm eating.” Another face, another story, another memory Yahaba can never get back.

He picked wild roses in Italy. Hand in hand with those he loved, he danced beneath the Eiffel Tower. He cried as a man delivered his speech about a dream, and cried twice as hard as they closed his coffin for the first and only time. The scent of piroshky lingers on his fingers. Secret kisses and shared hugs scatter across America like flower petals. In Melbourne, his arms cradled a baby he would one day give away in marriage. The widow whose funeral he one day would attend.

Yahaba's chest aches. Winter's chill persists, leaving his bedroom cold and frigid, but he can't muster the energy to move beneath his blanket. Curling up on his side, he buries his head on his pillow.

Thoughts swirl around him. How old is Madoka now? Was it last year that Yachi started primary school, or was it last year that she graduated college? Does she even remember who he is?

When did he last see Aone for a cup of coffee, before he had to say goodbye, no longer able to conceal the ageless nature of his face?

How many goodbyes did he forget to say? How many goodbyes did he whisper—how many hours did he beg, and plead, and scream—lifeless bodies hugged tightly in his arms?

It's been three years.

But the memories cling to him like a waking nightmare. Pain and loss and anger fade into numbness. Every night he dreams of endless stars. Every day he wakes in tears. Lost in a universe devoid of life, watching the earth suffer and break, he thought he could never feel lonelier…

Until he returned to a house that is no longer a home.

 


	3. Fight of the Tiger

The air on earth is heavier than in the temple, but it leaves Yahaba's chest feeling lighter. The shop door opens with familiar faces. Seasons change. Spring air mingles with summer, carrying the scent of jasmine and cherry blossoms. It's comfortable. It's normal.

Glass shatters.

“Y-Yahaba-san?”

Yahaba stares at the broken shards. “Oh.”

“Here, let me—”

“No.” Glass crunches under Yahaba's sneakers. “I got it.” Mechanically, he grabs the broom and dust pan.

It's normal.

The man places a nervous hand on his shoulder. “I... I'm sorry for your loss.”

Yahaba nods. He feels dizzy, his head heavy.

“Will you come to the funeral?”

Another nod. The broken glass tumbles into the dust pan with each sweep. Looking at the glittering fragments, Yahaba can no longer remember what it was just moments before.

Silence engulfs the shop. The familiar faces disappear.

This is normal.

The broom handle digs into his hands.

Normal.

In an instant, Yahaba barrels through the shop door. He doesn't hear it bang shut behind him. Startled people jump out of his way. Keeping his head down, Yahaba pushes himself to move faster. His eyes sting. The city blows past him, replaced with dark alleys and empty lots. Yahaba's ears twitch and stretch. His legs tremble. Hands slamming into the ground, Yahaba doesn't stop running. Rough roads scratch at his paws. Tires screech around him.

A streak of silver and brown flashes in the store windows as Yahaba turns around a corner. Street signs tower over him, but he doesn't spare them a glance. It doesn't matter if he's lost. It doesn't matter where he's going. He just has to get away.

His paws ache. The air burns his eyes, his lungs. Panting hard, Yahaba runs, never stopping, not until the ground tumbles from beneath him.

Concrete batters his side. His chest heaves. Eyes squeezed shut, Yahaba listens to the world turning, measures its placement through the sunbeams caressing his hot skin. Minutes drag into hours. The sun rises to a peak and then dips down into dismal shadows, too small for shade.

This was never what he wanted.

A nose tickles his hand. Cracking open bleary eyes, Yahaba watches a bunny nuzzle his fingers. Quirking one chestnut ear, it lifts its head, as if thoroughly disgusted.

“What are you doing here?” Yahaba asks. He can’t remember switching back to human skin, only that his fur felt too hot in the sun's glare. Yet, a full winter's coat adorns the bunny's small frame, fluffing out at the neck. Brown spots splatter across its face, almost like freckles. “Rabbit-san.”

Patiently, Yahaba watches as the fur around the bunny's neck grows, stretching into a jacket too thick for this weather. Speckled paws lengthen to slender fingers.

“You look like hell.” Shirabu twitches his ear.

“It's the new fashion trend.” Yahaba closes his eyes, basking in the cool relief of Shirabu's shadow. “They call it ‘Vogue.’”

“I call it trash.”

“Why are you here?” Yahaba tries not to whine. Clouds fog up his brain, but he knows it's been months since Semi ascended from the earthly plane. Surely Shirabu would have adjusted to the loss of his counterpart?

No.

Looking up at him, Yahaba already knows Shirabu isn't the type to adjust. Swathed in false elegance and empty bravado, his confidence is as meaningless as his concern.

“I was on a walk.” Brushing off his jeans, Shirabu stands. “You looked dead. I wanted to see if zodiacs are capable of death.”

“Shut your damn mouth,” Yahaba snaps.

Shirabu stumbles. Chestnut ears pull back, crossed between alarm and outrage, but he quickly turns away. “I see.” The words are slow, dismissive. The tone used when a calculation doesn't go as planned. Gaze icy, he returns Yahaba's glare with his own.

Shirabu's shoes kick up pebbles as he walks away.

With each footstep, Yahaba feels his heart sink deeper into his chest.

“Well?” Shirabu doesn't stop walking.

“Huh?”

“Are you coming or not?”

 

* * *

 

The house doesn't fit him. Small, almost quaint, yet larger than the shop room Yahaba crashes in, it is nothing of the luxurious high-end home he imagined Shirabu would be drawn to.

By the stove, Shirabu slices tomatoes with practiced ease, but his ears are turned out, alert for the slightest of sounds.

“I ascend next year.”

“I know.”

Yahaba leans awkwardly against the counter. Flexing his fingers, he watches his bandages crinkle.

The knife scrapes the cutting board. “I need someone to watch the house.” Lettuce falls in perfect slices.

“What about Tiger-san?”

Shirabu's shoulders tense, but he hides it by reaching for the dishes. “Semi-san gets wanderlust… He isn’t around much.”

Feeling useless, Yahaba grabs the bread off the shelf and arranges it on the plates. Strong and ever brave, he can imagine someone like Semi seeking adventure across the continents. Yahaba’s own travels churn in his mind, how they lead him around the globe and back again, stopping anywhere and everywhere along the way. Korea holds fond memories and a bittersweet goodbye to Moniwa, realizing too late that someone so kind, so free in their friendships, would never stay by his side for more than a day. Amsterdam brims with beautiful skies and seamless ice stretching for miles beneath well-worn skates. Wonderous festivals light up the streets of Nepal, and Yahaba ponders if that’s where Semi will go. High into the mountains. Lost to the peaks of Mount Everest, fingers reaching for a universe that is no longer his.

“You’re staring.”

“Huh?”

Shirabu pushes a plate towards him. In his hand, his own sandwich is already half eaten.

“Sorry.” Yahaba takes a bite full of swiss and turkey. “Spaced out.”

“Indeed.” Shirabu turns away, and Yahaba just barely catches a glimpse of his twitching nose. “You don’t have to do it,” he mumbles. “Horse-san stops by sometimes. I'll ask him.”

The thought of Kageyama watering house plants and adjusting thermostats brings a smile to Yahaba’s lips. “Nah, don’t trouble yourself. I can stop by now and again.”

Shirabu glances back at him. “You sure?”

Yahaba waves off his surprise. “Yeah, it’s no problem. I just can’t believe you asked me.”

“Don’t flatter yourself,” Shirabu scoffs. “You’re just convenient for the job.”

Shaking his head, Yahaba finishes off the rest of his sandwich. “You gotta admit it’s a bit strange, ya know? A rabbit asking a dog for help?”

Shirabu’s glare remains unimpressed. “My counterpart is a tiger.”

“Yeah, I know, but still.” Yahaba runs a hand through his hair. “You’re supposed to be so cautious, and yet you’re asking a predator for help—”

Metal clinks. Suddenly Shirabu is in front of him, pressing Yahaba into the counter. Cold marble digs into his back, but Shirabu’s hand grabs his cheek, pinning him in place.

“R-Rabbit—”

Shirabu shoves a spoon into his mouth. The hard sides hit his teeth, and Yahaba struggles not to gag. Twisting the spoon, Shirabu forces his mouth open wider, and Yahaba draws his lips back in a snarl.

“You call those fangs?” Mercilessly, Shirabu rips the spoon from his teeth. “Your bite is even weaker than your bark, Puppy-san.”

Yahaba blinks, then blinks again. “Puppy?” Shirabu moves away, but warmth lingers on Yahaba’s cheek.

“You don’t understand what caution is. It’s not avoiding danger.” At the sink, Shirabu meticulously scrubs the spoon until it sparkles. Satisfied, he reaches out a soapy hand and collects their empty plates. “It’s knowing what’s dangerous”—he glares at Yahaba—“and what’s harmless.”

Sagging against the counter, Yahaba tries to rub away his disbelief. The rabbit is a coward. Afraid of trouble, he hides behind false elegance and flimsy covers, finding refuge in the strong shadow of the valiant tiger. But there is no tension in Shirabu’s shoulders when he dries plates made of fine china. He isn’t elegant, Yahaba realizes, but there’s a certain charming simplicity to his movements, so easy to miss. Like expensive items veiled by a lackluster house, Shirabu’s personality sparkles only for those who take the time to truly look.

 _Maybe_ … A smile ghosts across Yahaba’s lips. _I was wrong._


	4. Loss of the Rabbit

Ghosts haunt the house.

It starts out small, only in glances and photo frames, but as the days stretch on, they grow and strengthen, begging for attention.

In the kitchen, Yahaba sees himself, doused in flour and salt. Tomato sauce coats the floor like blood. Shirabu crouches behind the table, hands armed with uncooked spaghetti. A food fight that lasted minutes, but a hug, slick with olive oil, that was worth a lifetime.

More ghosts clamor by the sink. There, Yahaba watches Shirabu wash dishes with practiced care, passing them to Yahaba to dry. Besides them, another Shirabu leans sleepily into Yahaba's back. Hands busy with pancake mix, Yahaba only ruffles his already mussed hair until flecks of baking powder tangle in his caramel locks.

The ghost grow strongest in the living room, Yahaba comes to realize. He tries to stay away, hiding with the phantom Yahaba who stutters awkwardly by the front door about not having a key, but they always lure him in with soft laughter and gentle whispers.

On a blank television, Yahaba sees Disney movie marathons and recordings of old volleyball games from a team long since forgotten. In the light of the setting sun, he relives every moment. Every scream showered in popcorn, slender fingers tugging him closer, whispering "I'm not scared, dammit." Every pillow smacking against his face as he launched into the next verse of the musical with perfect harmony. Every lingering touch, of knees brushing together, hands clasped tightly, a head resting against his chest, listening to his heartbeat as if it were the most beautiful song in the world.

Yahaba doesn't see an empty house. He sees a year's worth of memories unfolding, layer by layer, wrapping around his heart.

Outside, vast and hollow, Yahaba doesn't see Shirabu in the sky, floating among the stars.

A girl walks out into traffic, stumbling back just as a car speeds by.

A man hesitates at the intersection. Out of sight, hidden beneath the hood of the truck, a child runs across the street to safety, lost toy clutched safely in her hand.

In the sparkling tears of the girl who didn't jump, who froze long enough for the firefighters to pull her off the ledge, Yahaba sees Shirabu, calm and cautious, giving each life a second chance.

Lying in his bedroom, head heavy with memories of late night phone calls and long walks with no destinations, Yahaba realizes it's not the house that’s haunted. 


	5. Birth of the Dragon

He shouldn’t be here.

Standing on the white stone steps, Yahaba wonders how many times he’s thought those words before. Nearly two years ago, he shouldn’t have knocked on this door asking for a key ridiculously early of his housesitting job. A year and a half ago, he shouldn’t have waited with bated breath for it to open day after day, each time with a new excuse on his lips. A year ago, he shouldn’t have stared at a vacant house, heart hollow in his chest.

He should never have gone inside without permission when no one answered.

A cold emptiness fills the house. Heavy curtains block the windows. Shrouded in darkness, Yahaba shivers. Unease seeps from the walls, oppressive and abandoned, like a silent cry for help. It leaves a bitter taste on Yahaba’s tongue.

_Rule number one: don’t touch anything._

Tracing his hand along the table, Yahaba checks the kitchen first. The refrigerator hums softly. Besides it, the sink sits, lifeless. No plates litter the counter. The floor shines spotlessly between the barren trashcan and the frigid stove. 

_Rule number two: don't break anything_.

Beyond the kitchen, nothing stirs. Yahaba steps lightly past the couch, careful of the coffee table. Only one vase sits on the entertainment center, the other sacrificed for the glory of a vicious pillow fight.

At the hallway, Yahaba pauses. Through the open bedroom door, he can make out a messy bed, void of inhabitants. Peaking around the doorjamb reveals only lilac walls and simple furniture. A sterile room in a soulless house.

_Rule number three_... Shirabu's words dance through his head. 

Moving past it, Yahaba reaches for the door knob. Cold brass turns beneath his fingers.

... _Never go in the study_.

"Shirabu?" The door creaks open.

Yahaba's eyes widen. Ice fills his chest. 

Pictures plaster the walls. Frames overcrowd the shelves, falling onto the floor. Amidst broken glass and forsaken photo albums angrily thrown, Shirabu sits on the ground, head buried in his arms.

"How long have you been in here?" Yahaba doesn't expect a response, but he doesn't need one. Hair dull and eyes puffy, the answer is clear, etched into each line on Shirabu's face.

Glass cracks with each step Yahaba takes, but he walks slowly, settling down at Shirabu’s side. A sea of unknown faces stares at him from the photographs. A young girl, her hair bound in pigtails. A close friend, their arm strung around Shirabu’s neck. An old woman, her smile still the same as it was every day Yahaba saw her at his store, until the day she stopped coming. A teenager, their eyes bright despite the tepid polaroid. Carefully, Yahaba arranges the pictures into neat piles at Shirabu’s feet.

“Where’s Semi-san?” Shirabu’s voice is hoarse, broken. His haunted gaze doesn’t leave the floor.

Yahaba traces his finger along Shirabu’s knuckles. “I don’t know.” The thin bones of his hand build valleys and mountains. Yahaba glides his finger lightly over the ridges of his ligaments. As the tremors gradually leave Shirabu’s hunched frame, Yahaba brushes gently down his knuckles, rubbing life back into his cold skin.

Dim light filters to darkness. Shadows stretch eerily across the floor. Behind them, the grandfather clock chimes out eight times. Yahaba holds Shirabu’s elbow with a featherlight grip, stretching his arm, circling his wrist until the cracking stops. Stardust scatters to the floor. Shirabu stiffens but, slowly, hesitantly, relaxes as Yahaba caresses his cheek, running his hand through the trails where tears blazed like comets down his skin. Beneath heavy lidded eyes, nebulas swirl. Caramel hair shimmers with starlight.

Shirabu unfolds bit by bit, like a flower starved of sunshine. His movements are stiff. One arm dangles lifelessly, but the other tangles around Yahaba’s neck, fingers clutching at his shirt. Face buried in Yahaba’s shoulder, he smells of meteors and coronas and something so ethereal Yahaba’s tongue can’t find a name to conform to its scent, and so he doesn’t, instead leaving kisses along a temple that tastes of raspberries, rubbing circles between shoulder blades that are as icy as the moon and yet throb with the heat of the sun, alive with each insistent beat of Shirabu’s heart.

The clock strikes nine, ten. The barest hint of moonlight peeks through closed curtains. By the eleventh strike, the broken glass is kicked away, the pictures pushed to a safer spot. Cold tile presses into Yahaba’s back. Shirabu is heavy, but, with his head pillowed below Yahaba’s collarbones, a jacket flimsily spread over them for warmth, Yahaba’s chest feels light, as if, for the first, he can finally breathe.


	6. Trials of the Snake

Trapped inside shared memories, a new language writes itself in the silence. The signs are small, easy to miss, and yet they speak volumes without ever saying a word.

At first, Yahaba fumbles. Shirabu doesn't cling like Moniwa. Yahaba never sees him cry, but his cheeks remain damp, eyes puffy, as if Yahaba's just missed a storm that is still raging. The food he brings Shirabu piles up on the floor, untouched. Calmly, Shirabu lets himself drown.

Winter lingers in clumps of snow and rough patches of ice, but it feels warm next to the frigid air of the house. Yahaba turns up the heater. Each night brings new recipes. The best of them Shirabu barely touches; the worst meet their fate on the curbside. After two weeks of an empty refrigerator, Yahaba takes over the shopping. After two months, the neighbors greet him by name. 

Semi never arrives.

Days blur. Yahaba picks up the language like lost objects scattered around an empty house. Heavier meals hurt Shirabu's stomach. Showers burn his skin. As he lays out a nest of blankets on the study floor, Yahaba sees the first semblance of a smile grace Shirabu’s lips since he ascended into a world without love.

Sitting on the bathroom stool, Yahaba’s legs bump against the side of the tub. Lukewarm water soaks his skin. Voice more of a whisper than a hum, Yahaba runs his hands through Shirabu’s hair until stars no longer glisten amidst the suds. Buried up to his elbows in bubble bath, arms tightly hugging his knees, Shirabu leans back into his touch.

Shirabu doesn’t cling, but, when Yahaba takes his hand, he doesn’t let go.

The snow melts. Spring air mingles with summer. Inch by inch, Yahaba coaxes the curtains open. The television stays off, but Shirabu ventures onto the couch. His eyes stare into a universe that no longer exists. Eclipsed in evening light, lost stars weave constellations along his skin. They brand him with memories that will never leave. A nightmare he will never wake up from.

Shirabu cries, but not always with tears.

Lingering eyes. A hand that reaches out, only to curl away. Shirabu moves as if he’s never been in this body before. Days spin by like clockwork. Wake up, eat, shower, sleep. A cycle without purpose. Movements without consciousness. Shirabu never wavers; he doesn’t know how to.

As with a chisel and mallet, Yahaba chips away at walls of iron and steel. Dessert served for breakfast, although never too sweet. Shared pictures of kittens and stories where love conquers all, whispered like the deepest of secrets. As snowflakes piles against the windows, Yahaba stirs bubbling hot chocolate. Snow bunnies line the sidewalks. The first sliver of music breathes through the house. With each blanket Yahaba tucks around them, feet tangled together on the couch, another weight slips from Shirabu’s shoulders.

Haloed in the blue of moonlight, Yahaba sees not walls, but a cage. Bound tight around Shirabu’s heart, its door swings open with a faulty lock.

The only thing holding Shirabu back is himself.


	7. Reign of the Horse

“I hate you!”

Shirabu breathes hard, lips pulled back in a snarl. His fingers curl into fists. His body trembles.

The shout echoes against the snow, but the silence that follows is deafening. Ice weighs down Yahaba’s chest. In place of his heart, snowflakes pile up, fragmented and fading.

“Leave me alone.” His voice is calm, rehearsed, yet his lips quiver. “Why the hell are you even here?” Shirabu snaps. “Get lost.”

Yahaba doesn’t speak. Doesn’t move.

“Now.” Shirabu’s eyes blaze like dying stars.

_Fake_.

The word drifts through Yahaba’s mind. Snow crunches beneath his shoes, soaking into his pantlegs. A liar. A faker. A coward hiding behind Semi’s shadow. Standing on the threshold, not backing away, Yahaba can see the tension in Shirabu’s muscles, the unwavering desire to flee. Human ears stick out beneath fluffy earmuffs. The sign of a boy desperately fighting for control; a boy terrified of falling apart.

_False courage_.

Stone steps carry him closer, until he can look down at Shirabu. A simple rabbit, small and helpless. Sheltered by the tiger’s strength, he drapes himself in false elegance, mimics the things he knows he can never hope to achieve.

Yahaba curses himself for ever thinking such things. For ever believing Shirabu was anything less than brave and strong. Yahaba’s claws dig into his palms. For being so wrapped up in his own self-hatred that he projected it onto Shirabu.

Not false elegance, but careful consideration. A mind that never stops moving, planning, agonizing. No cowardice, only a loathing that runs so deep, it fills his veins like blood, spreading poison from his head to his heart. His shoulders tremble under Yahaba’s hands, yet Shirabu holds his gaze with a bravery Yahaba will never—could never—possess.

Even as he lies to Yahaba’s face.

“A million years ago—”

“Stop.” Shirabu struggles to push him away, but Yahaba stands firm.

“We were just stars, cursed to watch the earth suffer endlessly. We were alone.”

“Shut up.” Shirabu stumbles back. “I don’t need a history lesson.”

Yahaba leans against the door frame. He feels heavy, old. “So, we came here. We have lives now. We have a purpose now.”

“And your purpose is to annoy me?” Shirabu hisses.

Stretching out his hand, Yahaba traces Shirabu’s cheekbone, fingers gliding to tug off his earmuffs. They thump softly to the floor. “A million years, and I’ve never left you.”

“You barely know me.”

“Then let me.” Yahaba tries to pull him closer, but Shirabu steps back. Instead, Yahaba’s fingers slide down his arm, finding his hand and clasping it loosely between them: a bridge unburned.

“I know you’re salty as hell when I steal the bedsheets. I know you hate having eggs sunny side up. I know you cried during Bambi.”

“Lies.”

Yahaba’s lips quirk in a shattered smile. “I know you hate Christmas songs in November. I know you sing to J-pop in the shower.” Yahaba brushes his thumb along Shirabu’s knuckles. “And I know you’re terrified of being alone.”

Shirabu scowls.

“You’re tired of everyone dying.”

“Shut up.”

“You hate being left behind.”

“I said shut up.”

“I know, because I hate it, too.” Yahaba glares past Shirabu, as if the space behind him is the cause of all this pain. “I’m so bloody sick of it.”

“Yahaba...”

“But I’m not leaving. I’ve wasted so much time just suffering, every freaking day in this hell. But there’s stuff out there, stuff worth living for. And if you stop pushing me away, we can find that stuff. Together.”

“You’re wrong... about everything.” Shirabu’s voice is hollow. His eyes stare straight through him, like a void has stretched between them, tangling them on separate planes. “You don’t know anything.”

Yahaba tugs Shirabu again, and this time he moves without resistance. Chin resting against Yahaba’s shoulder, unsaid words flow from his trembling frame. A bridge collapse: twenty-three dead. A forest fire: nine casualties. A hurricane: eighty lives lost, hundreds of victims. Two earthquakes: thousands of corpses never to be recovered. Their weight latches onto Shirabu’s soul, ripping and tearing until it bleeds.

Brushing a strand of hair behind Shirabu’s ear, Yahaba whispers, “Nametsu Mai.”

“Huh?”

“June third. I watched Nametsu Mai walk into traffic. A truck driver took the turn too hard. He didn’t see her.” Yahaba runs lines through Shirabu’s hair, caramel curls twirling around his fingers. He still needs that haircut, Yahaba notes, but that no longer seems important, an event from a different lifetime. “She stepped back at the last second.”

“She... What?”

“No one called her name. She had earbuds in. Those stupid bushes we hate hid the truck, like we always complain about. But she stepped back. Because of you.” He thinks of fishing out his phone to show her picture, but Shirabu trembles in his arms, and Yahaba holds him tighter instead.

“No one tripped over that ugly table in the shop that we can never sell. And no matter how many times I went to that bar downtown, that clumsy waitress didn’t spill a single drink. They were cautious.”

“That’s not—”

“Hanamaki-san almost stepped on a snake,” Yahaba cuts him off. “We were walking in the park, and he just, stopped. Mid-step. The snake was right below his foot. I asked why he stopped, and he said something didn’t feel right. You did that, Shirabu.”

“It’s just a coincidence.”

“A driver slammed on the breaks when Hinata Natsu ran in front of his car. He wouldn’t have stopped in time if he was going the full speed limit. Sagae Yuushou cancelled on his beach plans. The next morning, I heard on the news that a shark was spotted there. Tsuchiyu Arata saved a girl from a drunk driver. Kuguri Naoyasu ducked just before a steel beam fell. How many people before it’s not a coincidence, Shirabu? I made a list.”

In his arms, Shirabu doesn’t move. Doesn’t breathe.

“You can’t save everyone. But you saved all these people. You didn’t fail them. And you’re not going to fail me either. Just”—Yahaba buries his face in Shirabu’s shoulder—“don’t push me away.”

Slowly, a hand moves to Yahaba’s back. It’s followed hesitantly by the second, and then Shirabu is holding him tightly, bunching up Yahaba’s coat, as if afraid to ever let go.

Behind them, the door swings slightly in the breeze. Chilly air cuts through Yahaba’s skin, but he feels only the warmth of Shirabu against his chest. One by one, the snowflakes in his heart melt. In their place, something new grows, small and bright. A gentle hope, chasing away the cold and pain.


	8. Exile of the Sheep

The door swings open, but the gate stays locked, a barrier between the outside world and the prison of Shirabu’s own design. Only a ceremony, far beyond the reach of human eyes, wrenches him from his blanket throne through the icy snow and miserable sleet. Stubbornly, he walks alone.

Winter melts to a rainy purgatory of ragweed and pollen. Too hot for a jacket yet too cold to go without, Yahaba digs in a garden long since forsaken. Plantain lilies and jasmine line a sea of violets and roses, colors a swath of gentle pink and deepest blue. Through the window, Shirabu watches with worried eyes. On the doorstep, glasses of lemonade appear, handmade with care.

Inside, new movies pile on the floor. The blanket nest from the study migrates onto a couch well-armed with pillows. They serve in courageous battles against horror movies, but as day creeps into night, stars flickering with the oncoming dawn, Yahaba learns Shirabu’s chest is the only pillow he will ever truly need.

Come morning, the store calls Yahaba away, but afternoon and evening encourage him to sneak home, hands never empty. He drops snacks into a refrigerator plastered with magnets spelling out “I love you” and “You pizza stealing dipstick.” Flowers collect in a vase older than the Middle Ages. Tenderly, photographs are hung along the walls, new friends joining old.

The latch feels hot in the summer heat, but, fingers hesitant yet steady, Shirabu unlocks a gate doused orange in the sunset. With each step they take, hand in hand, Shirabu’s cage dissolves, transforms, not a prison but a castle, his neighborhood a courtyard he no longer needs to fear. One block turns into two. Shirabu’s breathless smile sparkles brighter than a crown of jewels.

Autumn brings leaves of cadmium gold and alizarin red. They tickle Yahaba’s back when Shirabu stuffs a handful down his shirt. Legs burning, Yahaba chases him around the yard, ducking under low tree branches. It’s been too long since he’s had a reason to run, but his catch is more than worth the neighbor’s stares. Pinned beneath him, Shirabu smiles. Even with his hair—finally cut—tangled in leaves and cherry blossoms, he exudes a certain power that can only be dimmed, never extinguished.

Heart to heart, hand in hand, Yahaba feels his chest spark with something lost. In the gray winter clouds, colors burst forth. Buried under the dead flowers, new sprouts push through light frost. Arriving late in a flurry of snowflakes and scarves, Semi’s glare cuts Yahaba like a knife, yet warmth flows from his words like the crackling fire they roast marshmallows over as he shares stories of his travels. High mountains and ever-flowing rivers, twinkling cities under shooting stars, and seas that rage through the storms only to submit to the moon’s tender kiss.

Amidst people untouched by time and a world of never ending cycles, Yahaba finds change, hidden away in the only place he never thought to look.


	9. Climb of the Monkey

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning: Scenes in this chapter may not be suitable for all readers. If uncomfortable, please proceed to the next chapter.

Time moves like glass.

Teacups line the counter. On the wall, the clock ticks slowly. As Yahaba wraps a teapot in newspaper with efficient care, the seconds crawl by, lukewarm and sluggish, as if life itself is easing to a steady stop. His reflection stares back at him from a filigree urn. Phone pressed between his shoulder and ear, he idly wonders when they began selling such objects.

"I hate this." Shirabu's voice rings clear, tinged with the sounds of crowded footsteps and distant chatter.

"We all do," Yahaba says. He nestles the wrapped teacups in a delivery box. A porcelain doll follows, and Yahaba suspects a granddaughter may be involved in this purchase. Biting the cap off a marker, he mumbles, “I can still swing by.” The letters dip and curve, scrawling out an address across the cardboard. “Keep you company.”

The phone hums with fluttering breath. A long inhale. A longer exhale. “Don’t.”

Frowning, Yahaba recaps his marker. “I get that you wanna get used to being alone outside again, but this—”

“No.” His clothes rustle as he fidgets. “I… have a bad feeling.”

“What kind of feeling?”

“A bad one, Einstein.”

Yahaba chuckles. Besides him, Suzumeda smooths a label onto the box with her thumbs. “Shirabu?” Yahaba asks. Silence spans his question. A soft rumble. A high-pitched squeal. Above the address, the label reads “Fragile.”

“Shirabu?”

Suzumeda captures a sob in her hands.

The seconds crawl like hours, but in an instant, they shatter across the floor, broken, lost. The squeal grows into a deafening wail. Through the windows, colors flash, red and white, but the world around Yahaba fades to gray. He doesn’t notice his phone hit the floor, the dial tone coming to an abrupt end. The newswoman on the television screen narrates a soundless story. Behind her, a building burns.

“Y-Yahaba-san—”

Suzumeda’s startled cry is already far behind him. Five steps and he’s down the aisle. Four steps and the door shuts behind him, its muted slam buried under the piercing of sirens and the turmoil raging in Yahaba’s mind. The road before him stands out sharp and clear, but the world around him blurs. Fog fills his ears.

How many times has he ran down this path?

His muscles burn. Chest heaving, Yahaba pushes himself to run faster, desperation clawing at his lungs, scratching at his heart.

How many people has he lost?

Yahaba’s legs shake. His ears press flat against his head. Panic. Nausea. His claws dig into his palms. Fear. The emotions sink into his flesh like raindrops until he’s cold and numb. The city blurs around him. Cars screech. Helicopters circle overhead, smoke swirling through their blades.

How many times can he pull the broken pieces back together before there’s nothing left?

Flames coil around the court building, bursting from the windows, lashing out at a suffocated sky. Ash rains down like blood. Beneath the fire’s blackened grip, the cement crumbles and caves.

“Shirabu!”

The crowd surges against him, but Yahaba pushes ahead, deaf to the screams assaulting him from every side. Strong hands grab hold of him. Policemen yank him back, but Yahaba rushes forward, knocking the barricade aside.

“Stay back.”

“Shirabu.”

“It’s not safe.”

“Where is Shirabu?” Yahaba’s voice cracks.

“Sir, you need to stay—”

A scream echoes through the chaos.

Yahaba’s blood runs cold. Emerging from the flames, a man limps onto the desecrated ledge where a wall once stood. He stumbles and jolts. His body twists unnaturally, something not quite right about his proportions, as if parts of him have been left behind. At the edge, he wavers, once, twice, and plunges to the ground.

Yahaba drops to his knees. His stomach twists. Each heartbeat shakes him to his very core until he’s trembling on hands and knees, forehead pressed to dusty asphalt.

Thud.

Thud.

Bodies rain from the building, smashing into the pavement below. Alarms sound from crushed cars. Looking up, Yahaba watches them drop, no longer sure who is still alive and who has already died, long before their fall.

“Make it stop,” a child whimpers.

Yahaba comes back to himself slowly, as if waking from a dream. Sounds beat against his ears. His chest aches. As the adrenaline trickles from his veins, he feels cold, hollow. His hand reaches out for a person who isn’t there.

An hour. A day. A lifetime. Yahaba doesn’t know how long it takes him to struggle to his feet. Broken glass cuts his hands. Feet heavy, he limps the only direction he can go, closer to the raging flames.

Each second spans a fragile eternity as light erupts from the building, the explosion swallowing everything in its path.


	10. Spiral of the Rooster

Yahaba sleeps. Lacerations burn his face. Bandages hug tightly around his limbs. In his chest, something raw and painful screams to be noticed, but a cold numbness grips his heart, smothering all thoughts, all feelings. The nurses’ shoes echo off the tiles. Through bloodshot eyes, the lights almost seem to flicker. Yahaba can no longer remember the difference between being asleep and awake, between what is real and what’s just a dream.

His name is Yahaba Shigeru. The doctors nod their approval, as if Yahaba saying this is some sort of test he has passed, but the words are tasteless. He remembers when he wasn't Yahaba. Old memories wash over him. A new home every ten years, fifteen with each new invention of age defying products. A new name every thirty when the current one raises red flags. A new life whenever he needs it.

He'd forgotten the smell of gunpowder, the sting of shrapnel, the loss of war, but the hospital brings them back, one by one, until his lungs fill with smoke that isn't there. It doesn't matter if the walls are concrete or a canvas tent pitched in an army medical unit. The pain lingers, embedded deep in his soul. No matter how many lives he runs from, the memories follow.

Staring at battered fingers, Yahaba watches his bruises fade from black to a sour yellow. His body is stardust. Within hours, the scratches fade away. In only weeks, his broken bones dwindle into a distant dream, his limp the only evidence they were ever injured at all. Stiffly, Yahaba clutches his chest over a heart that refuses to heal.

The rehab center is bright, colorful, but the pain of the hospital seeps down into the carefully stylized walls. Children learn to walk again. Adults cry silent tears. Down the hall, the teenager refuses to leave her chair. She’s been there two years, the nurses say; Yahaba pretends not to hear.

Shirabu isn’t the same.

Five days of surgery. One bone shattered in ten places. Countless wounds hidden by gauze and casts leave him small and frail. For a week, he sleeps, perfectly still. A fortnight passes; Shirabu’s voice doesn’t return.

Like smoke blown by the wind, the details wash from Yahaba’s mind. The year of the monkey caves into a black spot in his memory, an empty void of fire and anguish. Watching Shirabu stumble on his crutches, it stirs up thoughts of a starless night, walking up cold temple steps, Shirabu’s legs dangling uselessly beneath Yahaba’s arms as they ascended into the realm where time stands still.

The first and last time they’ll make the climb together.

Yet, Shirabu caresses Yahaba’s cheek with trembling fingers, lifting his head when he can no longer find a reason to do it on his own. Legs twisted and mangled, Shirabu can’t support himself, but he pulls Yahaba from his place, holds him steady when he’s ready to break apart. Each touch conveys the words Shirabu can’t say.

Today isn’t goodbye.

Not yet.

Night descends in dreaded strokes, like a paintbrush slowly darkening an endless canvass. Asleep, Shirabu’s defenses fall. Trapped. Forsaken. Buried in flames and fallen stone, surrounded by death, the memories come to life in night terrors, until he’s upright and gasping, eyes wild, frantic. Until Yahaba cradles him close, eyes tired and heart heavy, and reminds him that he’s no longer alone.

 


	11. Cries of the Dog

“Today begins the end.”

The lights shine too bright. A hand rests on his shoulder. Fingers tousle his hair. One by one, blessings are laid on Yahaba, coating his skin like velvet, but he sees only faceless figures, their voices silent. The room radiates with gold, but as the clock ticks above him, emerald spreads across the walls, reaching for the ceiling. Rubies form along the floor like splashes of blood. To his left, the jade emperor’s coffin gleams.

Akaashi places kind hands on his back, and Yahaba tries not to flinch. “This is a year of death, of bloodshed, of war.” His voice cracks. Biting down on his lip, Yahaba tries not to think of a building burned to the ground. “But it is also a year of changes, of new beginnings, and everlasting patience. May you be constant in your loyalty. May you be generous in forgiving. May you be steadfast in following your heart.” Gently, as soft as a breath, Akaashi squeezes his shoulders. “Remember who you love.”

Above him, the topaz ceiling swirls into amethyst. The temple comes to life with his colors, a silent declaration that he will not be forgotten. As the last of Akaashi’s memorial fades away, Yahaba finds himself standing, floating, weightless. His body unravels. Stars seep through his skin, binding his soul.

Moniwa smiles, but his eyes swim with worry. Opposite him, Shirabu doesn’t move, staring at him as if he’s trying to burn Yahaba into his memory. As the room dissolves into blurred colors on a vast plane, Shirabu’s gaze lingers on Yahaba’s skin, bright and intense, like the last rays of the dying sun.

 

* * *

 

Bodiless, Yahaba’s conscious flows along the solar wind. Like fingers tracing down a book, he crests the surface of the earth. Mountains ascend, dotted with valleys and ridges, like freckles along the continents. The sea froths with life and loss. Yahaba sails alongside ships, coasting through the harbors, stretching far into the cities that lie beyond.

Day and night blur in the flashes of starbursts. Yahaba drifts through the world like mist. Sunlight glitters dazzlingly through Mexico off a dome of gold, orange, and yellow, while stars frame the Victory Monument, twelve hours away. Time slips through Yahaba’s grasp like sand. As the planets spin farther along their orbits, Yahaba wanders the farthest reaches of the universe without ever taking a single step.

Standing before the sun, ice fills Yahaba’s soul.

There is no loyalty.

One minute. Eighteen car accidents. Two suicides. One hundred deaths. Bodies fall like asteroids, some in a blaze of glory; others fizzling out in silent indifference.

 _It hurts_.

A cloudless blue sky stretches on forever, marred by smoke as a forest burns. Yahaba stands with the wife divorced for someone else, someone younger, someone “better.” The days grow longer, but they pass by in a blink. A landslide claims thirty lives. Like a nurturing mother, Yahaba cradles the stillborn child, sings a lullaby from a better world, a world that never existed. Hand in hand, he jumps with a man off a bridge, drowning together in the waves beneath.

Lost, alone, Yahaba resurfaces to a nightmare that never ends. 

Sorrow presses in from every side. Fear grips his heart like a vice. The weight of a thousand lives stolen all at once. Wounds carve themselves into skin Yahaba doesn’t have. Blood splatters across the ground like sunspots. Phantom pains saw through his arms, his legs, riddled with the teeth of sharks and the crushing blades of chainsaws gone awry.

_Make it stop._

Dutifully, one hundred employees arrive at work; fifty leave on stretchers, their bodies littered with gunshots. In the shelter, Yahaba pets a dog as the injection takes hold, the thumping of his fluffy tail slowly coming to a devastating silence. A boy cries in the bathroom, school books ripped and nose bloody from a bully with burning anger and a harmful outlet.

The punishment for their loyalty.

Neither dog nor human, Yahaba shatters into a broken shell.

The sea rages with nameless graves. Tears pave a path of destruction and pain. Floods rise; houses fall. As the water swirls in waves of crimson, the wind howls with Yahaba’s screams.

_I can’t do this._

Vague and blurry, a memory surfaces, slowly, like nebulae forming an indistinct spot of light in a dark universe. Hands that are soft yet firm, eyes weary with the weight of a million secrets not fit to be shared, a smile small and rare, locked away from the world, that shines brighter than the sun.

Shirabu.

“Have faith in yourself.” His voice guides Yahaba out of the wreckage.

A powerline falls; three houses burn. The police officer shoots the wrong person. In the darkness of night, a man abandons his child to the cold and snow.

“Be brave when facing the disloyal.” Semi’s words cool the fire blazing through Yahaba’s skin.

Desperately, Yahaba tries to pull the toddler out of the swimming pool, but their small fingers slip through his. Inside, a mother doesn’t notice the unnatural silence.

“When you can’t be loyal,” Moniwa whispers, igniting the darkness Yahaba sinks through, “be loving.”

Fire and water, day and night, smoke and carnage, Yahaba weathers it silently. Weights pile on his shoulders, bending his spine until it threatens to snap, but Akaashi lifts the burdens with gentle hands, one by one, allowing Yahaba to breathe once again.

“… Be yourself.” Kenma lifts him from the dust and ashes. Yahaba tries to grab hold of him, but, even as his fingers slide through something that isn’t there, warmth seeps back into his skin, filling his heart with something that isn’t pain, isn’t suffering, isn’t loss.

 _Hope_.

“This world is full of crap.” Shirabu flickers in and out of view, a blurry outline in an empty temple. “You can’t fix it.”

Businessmen abuse their subordinates. Cons steal the livelihoods of every stranger they meet. Teenagers betray each other for a ten second video soon to be lost to a dying website. A poor man starves on the street, evicted by his one true love.

“But…”

Overwhelmed with every sight and sound, still moments creep through Yahaba’s mind. Quick flashes. A brief glimpse of violets amidst a sea of roses and orchids climbing along temple steps. Not a memorial but a promise.

“…You’ll make it better.”

Yahaba’s chest tightens.

Bells toll above a wedding hall. Lost children journey safely home. In a flaming building, a dog pulls its owner to safety. Drunk yet faithful, a man refuses to cheat on his wife.

“It’ll be slow,” Shirabu says, as the student refuses to plagiarize. “Small things here and there.” His words echo through the train station where a depressed soul decides not to jump onto the tracks. “Just focus on that.” The air rings with the cries of newborns, eternal vows, promises of better tomorrows.

“You’ve been loyal enough.”

Like storms clouds parting before the sun, Yahaba takes a step back, seeing the world clearly for the first time in what feels like forever.

“Just come home to me, Shigeru.”


	12. Harmony of the Pig

Quiet.

Alone.

Sunlight dies behind closed curtains. Blankets burn against his skin, but Yahaba doesn’t move. Pain laces around him like ropes, holding his strained muscles in place.

Faces stare out from picture frames, their eyes dead and bleak, but Yahaba feels as if he is the one trapped behind glass, surrounded on all sides, as if imprisoned in an aquarium placed on display for all to see.

Small shuffling from the shop sends sharp pains through his ears, but the sounds are muted and dull. Pins and needles run through his legs. With each moment, Yahaba sinks deeper into the cold and dark, as if drowning in a bottomless sea.

Why did he return to this?

Will it ever end?

Desolate rain pelts the rooftop, but warmth spread across Yahaba's back. Soothing circles work their way between his shoulder blades, down his arms, breathing life slowly into stiff limbs.

Moniwa? Yahaba doesn't turn over to look, but soon two hands maneuver him off his side, rearranging his legs so the tingling stops.

Of course.

Yahaba's mind moves sluggishly, his body flinching with every movement. Tender skin turns an aggravated red beneath each touch. Blood drips from his knees where they struck the temple floor after descending from the sky.

Shirabu cleans it away with soft towels and smooth strokes. One by one, he covers each wound with a bandage until none remain.

Like mending together a deformed puzzle, the pieces warped and missing, Yahaba comes to a quiet realization. Of course it's not Moniwa. Each day stretches into a vast wasteland of misery, but barely a month has passed since Yahaba stumbled home alone through the snow and shadows. Eleven more will wither away before Moniwa returns. Eleven years, and Yahaba will be alone again, immortal, yet dying with each passing day.

Blankets wrap around Yahaba's shoulders. On his lap, plates of pancakes appear, always still warm. Shirabu wanders in and out of sight, but Yahaba comes to knows he is never far, nervously waiting. He sees Shirabu in glimpses of caramel hair and breakfast delivered to his bedside, hears him in I love yous mumbled to the quiet beat of cricket songs, feels him in every worried hug and lingering touch.

As the sun peaks above a late summer horizon, Yahaba finally sees the rain has stopped.

An easy routine blossoms like the violets, newly planted, beneath Yahaba's window. Dessert for breakfast, served extra sweet. Evenings spent with Suzumeda in a half open shop. In the kitchen, Yahaba finds the strength to hum against a throat still sore. Beneath the moonlight, tangled together in a bed much too small, Shirabu reassembles a heart long since shattered.

The bruises fade. Dreams of fires and bodies and screams leave him wide awake and trembling. But Semi visits with foreign cookies, and songbirds build a nest in the maple tree. Hand in hand, Yahaba climbs endless stone steps with Shirabu at his side, neither their first trip together nor the last, to lay down flowers at a memorial untouched by time.

Like drifting gently through the waves, Yahaba realizes there are some things he doesn't want to end.


End file.
